Silver Nights (30 page)

He glanced down at her feet with a rueful chuckle. “Barefoot, Sophie?”

She curled her toes into the grass. “I like to feel the dews upon my feet. It is a perfectly reasonable explanation for one who has the steppes in her blood.”

“I am not sure I would be convinced,” he said. “We must not be seen together, though.” He hurried her through the grass to the grove of trees, pausing there for a last kiss before sending her on ahead, approaching the canvas city himself from a different direction.

It was too late for such a precaution, however, although neither of them was aware of it. Prince Potemkin, restless in the dawn, his energetic mind seething with plans and prospects, had also left his bed before the night was done. Whispers, a soft laugh unmistakably rich with pleasures received and imparted, reached him in the still air. Curious to see who was so clearly enjoying the sensual delights to which he was no stranger himself, he cautiously approached the sounds. A small hillock offered concealment, and from its shelter he
identified the voices of Princess Dmitrievna and Count Danilevski.

Delicately he withdrew, voyeurism not being one of his pleasures, and went off to report to the empress this most satisfactory answer to the puzzle of Sophia Alexeyevna.

It was a most satisfactory answer, Catherine reflected, leaning back in her carriage, allowing her eyes to close in the afternoon's warmth. Her companions in the vehicle discreetly turned away from the drowsy little old lady whose breath came through the slack, toothless mouth in short puffs. Most satisfactory…

Satisfied and happy with a lover, Sophia Alexeyevna would put a good face on her marriage and there would be no more talk of annulments and rustications. Adam Danilevski was a perfect choice. Unencumbered himself, he reduced the tangles usual in such liaisons by at least one strand. Of course, Dmitriev must be kept in ignorance. He was not the stuff of which complaisant husbands are made, and court scandals were really most unpleasant. Grisha would ensure his absence for most of this journey; once back in St. Petersburg…well, that was in another world, to be thought about when the magic was over. It was to be hoped she did not conceive, though…. However, she had not done so in all these months…. The czarina's head fell forward onto her breast. The little puffs took on a certain resonance.

To her amazement, Sophie found that she was never again assigned a tent fellow. True, her shelter was not as lavishly furnished or decorated as others; it was small, but the luxury of privacy had to be paid for. As they journeyed into the Crimea, she continued to ride in pleasant and varied company. Frequently, Prince Potemkin would invite her to join him at the head of the caravan, and she would find herself in
the company of Count Danilevski; at other times she rode beside the czarina's carriage in the company of one or more of the ambassadors. Everything seemed designed for the furtherance of her pleasure, for the easy accomplishment of intimacy. When in questioning wonder, she expressed this to Adam he simply nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his beautiful mouth.

“What is funny?” They were a half day's ride from Bakhchisarai, and Sophie was beginning to feel the first hint of oppression fogging the cloudless serenity of the last days.

“I think,” Adam said slowly, “that we have had a few cherubs on our side recently.”

“Cherubs? Whatever can you mean?” Despite the hovering despondency, she could not help laughing at such a choice of word.

He looked mysterious. “You do not need to know, and I can only guess. Let us simply be thankful.”

Sophie began to protest, then subsided with a gasp as they crested a rise and saw galloping toward them an army of Tatars dressed with such magnificence it quite took her breath away, armed with such seriousness it brought her heart into her mouth. “A reception committee or a repulsing army?” mused Adam. “The latter would hardly be surprising. We've imposed Christian officialdom on Islam, overshadowed their minarets with our churches.”

“Invaded their streets with unveiled women,” Sophie added somberly, watching the glittering, warlike army approaching. “They despise women, they detest Christianity, why should they bow beneath the yoke of a Christian woman—even such a one as Catherine?”

“Because she trusts them to do so,” Adam said. “Watch.”

The splendid cavalcade of warriors surrounded the imperial carriage, where sat Catherine and the Prince of Prussia. Not a Russian fighting man was in sight, only officers in full ceremonial regalia.

“They could carry Their Majesties off to Constantinople, and no one could stop them.” Sophie choked, half amused at the idea, half horrified. “Can you imagine what entertain
ment His Highness, Abdul Hamid would derive from such prisoners? Just think of the czarina in Abdul Hamid's harem!” Sophie was assailed by a fit of giggles at the appalling irreverence of the thought.

“I'd rather not,” Adam said dryly. “But I do not think such a thing is about to happen. Her Imperial Majesty has simply been accorded a worthy escort for the empress of the erstwhile subjects of the Crimean Khanate.”

The imperial cortege and its escort entered the city of Bakhchisarai: a city of white houses dozing beneath the benediction of the southern sun, silver-leaved olive trees, the fragrance of jasmine and roses filling the air from gardens lushly burgeoning.

Sophie gazed, marveling, from the glories of the lavender-hued mountains to the crisp, jade green of the sea. “Such bounty, Adam.”

He smiled his agreement, but made no other response. Somewhere in this city was to be found General, Prince Paul Dmitriev. Adam glanced sideways at Sophie.

“Perhaps it would be as well if you were not at my side,” she said, perfectly attuned to his thoughts. “I will drop back to find some quite innocent company.”

The city's inhabitants evinced indifference to the invading procession, turning their backs upon the splendor as if it had nothing to do with them. It was one form of self-defense, Sophie reflected. When a proud nation was humbled in such fashion, apparent apathy could tarnish the glitter of the invader.

They arrived at the palace of the dethroned Khan to be transported into the land of the Thousand and One Nights. This southern palace bore no resemblance to the grand habitations of Catherine's northern capitals. Here were orange and pomegranate trees, softly plashing fountains in fragrant courtyards, marble walls and tiled floors. Cashmeres and silks upholstered the divans and ottomans, rugs from Persia and Turkey lay in careless, scattered profusion, and the soft sea breezes wafted through arched windows, across deep balconies.

If this was the culmination of Potemkin's fairy-tale journey, he could not have chosen better. Sophie wandered, wide-
eyed, through salons and courtyards, the incessant excitable babble of Natalia Saltykova at her shoulder. The urge to tell her to hold her tongue for just one minute that she might absorb what she was seeing became almost irresistible. The words were on her tongue when she heard a familiar, precise clicking of booted feet across the tiled floor. It took her back to the dining room in St. Petersburg, when she would sit in her chair waiting for the clock to strike two and her husband's measured stride to sound from the hall.

“Ah, my dear wife, you have had a pleasant journey, I trust?” He bowed, hat in hand, pale eyes derisive, as if he could hear the speeding of her heart—a reaction to fearful memory rather than to the present, but nonetheless powerful.

“Very pleasant, thank you, Paul.” She curtsied to her husband, gave him her hand, moved her mouth into a smile shape. “You accomplished your mission most successfully, it would seem. The czarina's reception was magnificent.”

“Did you imagine I might not succeed?”

She shook her head, saying truthfully, “No, I never imagined such a thing.”

“Permit me to show you around the palace.” He offered her his arm, inclined his head to the bevy of young women with his wife. “You will excuse me, mesdames, if I take my wife away from you for a short spell.”

Sophie laid her hand upon her husband's arm, telling herself she was still safe. He could frighten her, but he could not harm her, not here…not now…not yet. Again, her other hand went surreptitiously to her belly, a soft curve invisible beneath the copious folds of her riding skirt.

With the appearance of complete affability, Prince Dmitriev escorted his wife through the palace of the Khan, imparting the knowledge he had acquired during the weeks of his stay. “The Tatars exhibit the most admirable understanding of a woman's function in the world and of her worth,” he remarked casually, leading her through a series of opulent salons. “This was the prince's harem. Here, he kept his women secure from the eyes of all but themselves. A Mohammedan woman has but two tasks: to minister to her lord's
pleasure and to be fruitful.” The blue eyes rested upon his wife. “Should a woman fail to perform in either task she is expendable…not worth the protection, shelter, means of subsistence granted by her master.”

“There is no need to labor the point, Paul.” Sophie could see little value in pretending to believe they were having an ordinary conversation.

His smile flickered thinly. “Of course, in some cases certain efforts are made to encourage a…a recalcitrant, shall we say, to conform. Generally,” he continued pensively, “such efforts prove most successful.” He laid a hand over Sophie's, resting nerveless upon his arm. “We will try again, Sophia Alexeyevna. I have learned much from the followers of the Prophet.”

Sophie wondered if perhaps her husband had become unhinged under the temperate skies of this southern clime. Had he become infected with the barbarous attitudes and customs of a people who had pillaged and enslaved whole populations as they enslaved the entire female sex? It occurred to her that Paul was ripe for such an infection; such beliefs and behavior would find rich growing ground in a mind already dedicated to the complete dominance of any soul unfortunate enough to be in the least dependent upon him. It was a singularly uncomforting reflection.

“This is your chamber.” Paul gestured toward an arched doorway, beyond which lay a small sleeping chamber overlooking an inner courtyard. Sophie obeyed the invitation to enter, followed by her husband, who closed the door softly behind him.

“Now,” he said, seating himself upon an upholstered divan. “Let us see if such an environment cannot produce a beneficial effect in you, my cold, barren, unworthy wife.” The pale gaze pinned her to the spot. “Let us see if you cannot kindle at least a flicker of desire in my breast. You see, I do not find you in the least appealing. But I think that is because you do not try hard enough. Would you be good enough to undress for me?”

Sophie wondered if she had really heard the polite request.
She could feel a scream building deep inside her. But what good would that do? There was nothing out of the ordinary about a husband and wife enjoying a little privacy after a separation. Would he notice anything untoward about her body? Her waist was a little thicker, her breasts heavier, but her height masked these changes. If he was not looking for them, he would not see them.

The calculations raced at breakneck speed through her fevered brain. If he was going to force himself upon her, she would endure it as she had done in the past. Slowly, she shrugged out of her jacket and began to unfasten the buttons of her blouse.

A knock at the door stilled her fingers. A spasm of annoyance crossed Paul's face as he bade the knocker enter. Sophie turned away to the window, looking down on the courtyard as she refastened her shirt.

“Prince Potemkin is holding a council, General, Prince Dmitriev,” a young, breathless voice was saying. “I am bidden to request your presence.”

A reprieve, but for how long?

Paul, all thoughts of his wife departed under the press of duty, was flaying the young cornet for the unsoldierly bearing that would have him present himself to a superior officer breathless and sweaty. Sophie felt compassion for the lad as the general's tongue stripped him of every vestige of dignity, but she was human enough to be grateful for the diversion. The cornet unwisely attempted to defend himself on the grounds that the general had been hard to find and his message urgent. Dmitriev's cane whacked down upon the lad's shoulder with bruising force. Sophie winced, but kept her eyes on the courtyard beneath the window.

“I will come to you after you retire,” her husband was saying in clipped accents. “We will continue then.” The door clicked shut behind him.

Sophie let out her breath on a long exhalation of relief. Another knock produced Maria, come to unpack her mistress's belongings. Since Paul's departure at Kaidak, Sophie had loftily dispensed with the maid's more intimate services,
thus ensuring that Maria was in no position to notice any physical changes in her mistress. The serf, well aware of how little favor she found in the princess's eyes, had shown no surprise at being relegated to the basic duties of wardrobe mistress. Since the prince was not there to give her contrary orders, she had no choice but to obey Sophia Alexeyevna. If she was surprised that laundering of the princess's undergarments was accomplished by a young girl in Countess Lomonsova's service, she appeared to accept it with the blind resignation of her kind.

Leaving Maria to her task, Sophie went quickly to the czarina's apartments. Here all was bustle as the empress settled into her palace, and the Grand Mistress, now that the journeying was over for the time being, set to with customary dedication to impose order and routine upon the court.

“Do you care to stroll through the gardens, Princess?” The Prince de Ligne bowed. “I am afraid that if I do not remove myself, Countess Shuvalova will assign me some task.”

“Come now, Your Excellency, the Grand Mistress would never be guilty of such a gross breach of etiquette,” said Sophie, laughing. “But I would love to take a walk, in order that
I
should not be assigned some irksome duty.”

“Sophia Alexeyevna.”

At the czarina's calm summons, Sophie shrugged ruefully. “I spoke too soon. Excuse me, Prince.” She crossed to where the empress was seated at a table examining the reports that reached her daily from every corner of the empire. It mattered not whether she was under a tent on the open steppe, drifting down the Dnieper in a galley, or taking up residence in the palace of the Khan, the government was wherever Catherine was, and the business of government continued.

She looked at her lady-in-waiting thoughtfully. “I trust you will not be too disappointed, Princess, but I am afraid I have need of your husband's services in a matter that will take him from your side again.” The joyful flash in the dark eyes was swiftly extinguished, but not before the empress saw it. She smiled to herself, thinking indulgently of how pleasant it was
to facilitate the paths of love. “He will be leaving before nightfall for the Sublime Porte, bearing my message for the Sultan.”

“It would be a poor wife, Madame, who could fail to be pleased by such an honor for her husband,” Sophie said, curtsying.

Duplicitous baggage, Catherine thought tolerantly. “You will continue to bear the French, Prussian, and British envoys company, Princess. It is a duty you perform well.”